


Eyes Wide Shut

by Deejaymil



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blindfolds, Established Relationship, Everybody Lives, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Handcuffs, It's all fun and games until the taxes don't get done and everyone is audited, Making blindfolds fun again, Praise Kink, Romance, smut with a purpose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 15:38:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12302241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deejaymil/pseuds/Deejaymil
Summary: He’s on his knees right now, cuffed and blindfolded and completely naked but for those two things, but she’s the one who’ll follow where he leads. All the power in the room is in the smile teasing the corner of his mouth.She loves that about him.





	Eyes Wide Shut

**Author's Note:**

> Their bedroom is always a pleasure. Mutual trust goes far when naked and vulnerable, and, between her and Spencer, there’s more trust than she can sometimes fathom, especially from him. Spencer, Maeve is one hundred percent sure, trusts her with his life, his heart, and everything in between.

Never is that more apparent than when they play this game together. It’s her favourite. Not his—his are the weekends they set aside where clothes are disallowed around the apartment as they go about their daily lives. He loves the casual connection of skin on skin at every thoughtful or thoughtless touch; coming up behind her while she brushes her teeth and tracing his hands down her bare back; her finding him reading a book lazy and sedate on the couch and mouthing her way up his thigh until he’s forced to put the book aside and pay attention to her; one memorable time when he’d used his fingers relentlessly on her while she was trying to do their taxes. But she thinks maybe this is a close second, despite being far stricter with its rules.

One: he’s not allowed to talk. This runs on an honour system. She traces his jaw now with one hand, feeling the rough burr of stubble, seeing his lips turn up. There’s something hypnotic about his voice when he’s quiet and intent; she’s seen him babble endlessly until everyone is bored to tears, but she’s also been on the receiving end of him trying to be soft and careful about his long speeches—she knows which she prefers and that she’d be putty in his hands if she allowed him that power. Given an inch to use his tongue, he’d take a mile and she’d be in the bed with him buried eight inches deep before she could tell him _not yet_.

Two: he’s not allowed to _see_. The blindfold is silky and doubled over to stop him peering through where the light seeps in, but only loosely tied. He could shake it off if he felt like it. From her position standing over him, she can see the dark flicker of his lashes looking down. Locks of curly brown hair fall carelessly over the black silk, roguishly, and she wants to touch, to twist them between her fingers, to run her hands through that hair until it’s hopelessly awry. Perhaps she will, soon. Right now, she’s teasing.

Three: he’s not allowed to touch. The cuffs are made for this, but she knows from experience that, if she pushes this too hard, he’ll tense until they bruise nonetheless. She also knows that if he decides not to play nice, he can pick them. It adds an air of unpredictability. Perhaps today he’ll play along; perhaps today he’ll wait until she’s distracted and sweep her off her feet.

Complete trust. He’s on his knees right now, cuffed and blindfolded and completely naked but for those two things, but she’s the one who’ll follow where he leads. All the power in the room is in the smile teasing the corner of his mouth.

She loves that about him.

Because she’s been reminded, she says, “I love you,” while pressing her hand to his racing heart just to feel it skip. But he doesn’t respond; he’s not allowed. Despite this, he tilts his head up so she can vividly imagine the hazel eyes behind the silk focusing on her and mouths the words back— _I love you too_ —and she covers his mouth and goes, “Tsk.” His head ducks—a silent _sorry_ —but he’s still smiling and his heart is still racing and he’s too amped up for her liking. She likes to slow him down, shut him off. It makes it easier to stop him overthinking; when he’s solely focused on the pleasure of them together, it’s one of the few times he doesn’t drown himself in his own overactive brain.

She kneels and shuffles forward into the small gap between his legs, seeing him cock his head towards her with interest, dick twitching like he’s already ready to go. He’s not. He’s still soft, some small interest beginning to work its way down there, but she’s not ready to work on that yet and they’ve played this enough by now that he knows that. Instead, she smooths her palms over his broad shoulders, playing for a moment along the knobbly bone before tracing them down his tensed biceps, feeling him relax under that sweeping touch. She shuffles closer, finds his mouth. Kisses him once, slowly. So slowly. Slow and coaxing until he opens his own mouth and invites her in; for a heartbeat, she gives him what he wants and kisses him hungrily, but backs off before his body responds. Slotting their lips together, she slides her hands down to his sides and begins a slow, rhythmic stroking with her fingers on his skin. Along his ribs, down his sides, tracing his pelvic bone, back up again, repeat once more. With every slow sweep upwards, she breathes in. Pauses on the highest point. Down; breathe out. It takes barely a dozen of these before he, consciously or unconsciously, begins to match her breathing, his head dipping forward. And she keeps going. Up; breathe in; pause; down; breathe out.

They lose track of time. There are enough blankets folded under them that their knees are saved from the floor below; the cuffs are loose enough at this point that he won’t stiffen up; gravity aids her movement against him. For a moment, when she’d begun touching him, she’d felt him swell against her knee, but he’s soft again now and his breathing is sedate, as though he’s on the cusp of sleep, almost slumped into her arms. In his chest, his heart whispers along.

“Is this good?” she asks him, feeling him twitch awake at the sudden shock of her voice in the silent bedroom. He nods slowly, sluggishly, straightening in her arms with a slight shake of his shoulders. “How do you feel?”

He knows better than to answer that verbally. Instead, he kisses her. It’s a kiss as sedate as he is right now, barely conscious and heavy with love. His breath is warm and damp against her lips. She stops stroking and instead brings her hands to cup his chin, kissing him again, a little fiercer, knowing that his control is lax right now and that if she plays her cards right— _ah!_ Right there; he moans gorgeously, almost drunkenly, surging up into her kiss with a delayed skip of his heartbeat. Here’s the tricky bit; she wants to take him from lazy to aroused without pausing in the in-between. Lucky for her, she can play his kinks like a harp with twice the finesse.

“I love you like this,” she breathes against his mouth, sliding up onto his lap until she’s straddling him and settling down against him, wrapping her arms around his head in a loose circle so she can tangle her fingers through the back of his hair: “Do you know why?”

He goes to nod then plays along: shakes his head instead.

“Good boy,” she purrs, and feels him shiver from top to toe. “My clever, clever man… my Doctor Reid… I love it when you’re so turned on you can use that clever brain of yours. I know you’re close to that, aren’t you? All sleepy and aroused and thinking of… what are you thinking of, Spence?”

He’s silent. She rocks her hips against him once as a reward, feeling him stiffening into the friction she offers. Fingers twined tight in his hair, body tight against his, she nips at his earlobe and murmurs, “Have you noticed that I’m wet?”

_Twitch_ go his hips in an upwards jolt towards her. Naughty, but she forgives him, even encourages it; she’s wet alright and has been since she told him to _kneel_ and he quietly goes, “ _Oh_ ,” when his dick brushes that welcoming warmth. But he settles back down, his question answered and without permission to go further, and nods for her, twice. _Nod nod_.

“You did that,” she reassures him, watching a muscle in his throat tighten as he swallows: “Seeing you like this, doing this to you… you did that to me.” Pushes close, nips again before biting down on the lobe and blowing a rough, _“You made me this way,”_ into his ear.

He’s hard enough now that he’s pressing up against her thigh, every sway of her hips dipping him into her. But his heart is still slow, not racing like before, and she knows he’s focused on her and not himself.

“Hmm, what else are you thinking?” she says out loud, lowering her head to mouth at his pale throat before straightening and arching her back so she can brush her breasts against his chest. She sees him twitch, almost bow his head; he loves to take her breast in his mouth and tease the nipple stiff with his tongue and she’s loathe for him to miss out, so she adds, “If you answer this correctly, I’ll reward you.”

The blindfold peers back and up at her, the cuffs clinking slightly as he adjusts his position. He waits.

And she says, “Are you wondering about how I’m going to make you come?”

He shivers again, beautifully, and she can’t help but do so as well as she watches the black stripe of blindfold and suddenly imagines how wide his pupils must be right now, hungry and bottomless.

He nods.

“Good boy,” she tells him in a rough-sharp purr, and his mouth slips over, his back arching a little as he strains towards her; she can see his brow lifting as his eyes widen. Between her thighs, she can see his cock jolting at the praise, and she watches it as she says, “So eager to please, love, you’re so good at this. So _good_.”

He huffs out a strained breath, mouth still open, bottom lip bitten pink, and she traces the line of his mouth with one finger. “Good boy,” she says one more time, one hand still twined in his hair; using that to guide him to his reward. “Show me just how good you are, baby, turn me on.”

For the first few moments he’s given free reign, he’s almost too rough, too frantic to please her. His mouth finds her nipple unerringly, tongue tracing rapid patterns in a circular fashion, but she wants him slow and teasing: “Slow,” she scolds, tugging his hair at the roots and feeling him roll with the motion. “Calm down.”

He breathes out, hot and damp, and slows. A gentle, teasing trace of his tongue, a rhythmic pressure of sucking that grows and fades as he switches his tempo. He bumps his nose on her twice and she obediently shifts around to guide her other breast into his waiting mouth for the same treatment. He builds the tension and fades it out; builds it up more, a little more, a little more, eases off. By the time he switches again, she’s turned on and flushing hot and cold, almost too overstimulated as her breasts ache pleasantly. Before she can warn him, he stops and runs a line of kisses up the centre of her chest; he knows her so completely it takes her breath away. Then he waits, head cocked to the side, chin tilted up: _Did I do well?_

“So well,” she assures him breathlessly. “Gosh, _so_ well.” He smiles, his lips damp and pink, and she lowers herself and kisses him, settling onto his lap with his cock nestled against her belly where it leaves a damp stripe every time she breathes. One more kiss: it’s a little frantic and she rubs his dick between them as she does so, feeling the wet flush a little and begin to pool; he moans into her mouth and his hips twitch hungrily. But she’s not done: “Let me tell you how well.”

And she slips off of him and away, standing to admire their handwork. Her belly is cold away from him, a deep-seated throbbing between her legs reminding her relentlessly that there’s a willing man waiting for the taking, the tops of her thighs sticky and warm. On the floor, he fights his cuffs a little with a frustrated/excited huff: his cheeks are flushed prettily with a red that runs down his throat and across his chest; he has freckles on his shoulders that she adores; his cock is so hard she aches more just thinking about how it will feel inside her. She circles him, admiring the curve of his ass, the two dips of the dimples on his lower back, the line of his broad shoulders; his gorgeous hands cuffed and waiting for permission to touch once more.

Even from here, she can tell he’s breathing fast. Worked up again.

Tsk.

She comes up behind him and kisses his shoulder-blade. He hears her coming but still twitches with surprises at the touch of her lips. “Calm,” she says in the voice she uses to lull: “Breathe, love.” And she runs one hand down his side in the practised motion: up, breathe in, pause, down, breathe out. Utterly focused on her, he immediately relaxes, his shoulders going loose, his mouth turning lazy and sleepy. Dick still hard but mind on her once more. “Are you breathing slow?” _Nod_. “Are you listening?” _Nod_. “Are you calm?”

_Nod._

Closer she gets; breasts against his back, his hands dangerously close to her crotch, her mouth tucked over the join between shoulder and throat, and she bites gently. Sucks. Leaves a mark. One hand curled around him, over his chest so she can feel the thump of his heart. “Are you turned on?” she asks; his heart barely stutters.

_Nod._

As a reward, she lowers that hand to his cock, nestled up behind him as she wraps her hand around him and strokes him gently, feeling him curl into the path of her hand with a soft _ahhhh_. She can still feel his heart through her own chest; asks, “Should we fuck now?”

He jerks in her grip, whimpers, _nod nod nod_. _Tha-thump tha-thump_ goes his heartbeat, fast to make up for the beat he’d skipped, his cock harder in her hand.

She’s not done.

“You’ve been so good,” she tells him, feeling him wiggle in her grip, feeling him almost turn to face her before regaining control; his heartbeat is rocketing and she allows it: “So good, all I want to do is fuck you. Take you as deep as you can go until you lose control inside me, until all you’re thinking about is sex, is fucking, is _coming_ —”

He jerks again, chokes out, “ _Mae_ —” and bites it off before finishing.

Naughty.

“Oh no,” she says, slipping away from him, and he almost _whimpers_ with frustration, his ears redder than his cheeks now and the stain on his chest pooling lower. The hand she’d been stroking him with is wet and so is his dick; she paces around him and watches as he fights the cuffs a little more with a trickle of pre-come beading up from the head of his cock and filtering down the side. “Spence, you were doing so well, how could you?”

He looks at her plaintively, shaking his head, mouth opening and closing soundlessly.

“Disappointing,” she adds, but he’s not the only one worked up. Her blood is rushing in her ears, her body coiled and centred on the throbbing _want_ , and there’s a line of wet dripping down her own legs. “And I was so _ready_ …” An idea strikes, and it’s mostly her own horniness driving her by this point: “…so ready… I think you should have a taste of how ready…”

Her fingers are warm against her skin but still feel cold and _not enough_ when she slips them inside herself, making sure to step closer to him so he can hear the noise of her working herself up. She only intended on moistening them, on giving him a taste, but she’s so damn _aroused_ she can’t help but toy with her clit while she’s there, losing herself for a moment in the thrill of pleasure, vocal about her enjoyment of it as she moans gently and smiles as another drip of pre-come beads up from his over-eager cock.

When she taps her fingers against his mouth and whispers _open_ , he does so greedily, sucking them down deep into his mouth, his tongue working rings around them. He’s not gentle or tidy about it and she feels like there’s a line from his mouth to her crotch, drawing all of her desire up and into him as he sucks her fingers clean.

“You love this,” she says distantly, using her free hand to trace her thumb around her clit, to keep the pleasure thrumming through her, “Look at you. So greedy. I should give you what you want… more, I think. Am I right?”

_Nod nod nod_.

She steps closer, frees her fingers from his mouth and winds them into his hair again; asks once more, “Did you like your taste?” _Nod_. “But you’re greedy, aren’t you?” _Nod_. “You won’t stop if I let you have more…” She’s breathless, almost panting, almost pleading: “You’ll stop being good. You’ll just keep going until I come.”

He nods so violently she’s sure she hears his neck click in protest, but there’s no time for wondering because she’s moaned, _good_ , and used her hand in his hair to guide his mouth between her hips, and he’s just as naughty as advertised. All tongue and lips and a sucking, teasing pressure; he’s not clean or reserved and he takes her apart as easily as if he had all his facilities available to him. Toying with her clit for _almost_ too long before tracing a long line though her, lapping hungrily; he dips away to breathe twice and both times she’s shocked and delighted by the mess on his face. He’s normally so careful, so precise, this kind of franticness drives her utterly insane. And it keeps going and going and working her up and up and up until her hips are jolting forward, almost smothering him, and she’s one lost marble away from fucking his tongue until she—

“Oh!” she gasps, because he’s edged her a moment too long and she tumbles with a shout and a sobbed, _Spencer!_ Coming with his mouth buried in her, her fingers wound so tightly in his hair that she can almost feel the pull in her own scalp; she crumbles to her knees as her legs go weak, catching herself on him and kissing him wildly. He tastes of her; his face is a mess; she’s babbling about him being wonderful, fantastic, _hers, all hers, just hers,_ and she’s lost control of the game. She grips him tight, nails in his back in the way he loves, marking him _hers_ in the way that makes him harder than he knows how to understand; but he’s still being good.

He doesn’t speak, even though his breathing is _fucked_ and his cock must be hurting by this point and she peeks at his wrists and can see he’s straining them.

Another reward, she thinks distantly, knowing she’s fooling herself. She thinks she’s rewarding him but, really, she just wants him inside her.

Maybe she should tell him that.

“You know what you deserve?” she asks him, and the blindfold shakes slowly in her wavering vision as she steadies herself and finishes, “I can’t stop thinking about you inside me… so I’m going to sink down on you—” He gasps, chokes, and then moans because—“Just like…” —she’s done just that: not even slow; one moment they’re hugged close, the next he’s buried inside her and she’s sliding until he’s as deep as she can get him, a sudden, shocking, splitting feeling of being too-full/just-full-enough, feeling him jerk and whimper and, then, in a pulse inside her that she knows isn’t him coming but feels weirdly _intense_ for a rush of pre-come, add to the mess she’s making. She wiggles down, feels him seat himself more comfortably, and says in a voice that’s far more fucked/satisfied/husky than she intended; “… _this_. Don’t move yet, love, don’t move…”

He freezes, his hips stalling. So close to fucking her… but she wants to _tease_ …

“Can you get the cuffs off?” she whispers. He’s still frozen before he nods slowly… “Good. Take them off… hold me tight… so tight, love, hold me so tight…”

A fumble, a clatter of metal, and then a _thunk,_ and his arms are around her, his mouth nuzzling into her shoulder and kissing, nipping, _biting_ hard; as he bites he makes a noise like a growl and jolts his hips up _hard_ in a thrust that’s a delicious mix of pleasure and pain.

She says, “Stop,” and he does with a hiss of hot air, his grip crushing. She squeezes her thighs tight, feels a moan work up through his chest to squeeze out against her skin, asks: “Can you feel that? Feel how full you make me? How tight I am around you… how _wet…”_

Once, twice, his mouth moves against her, his brain trying to catch up with whether he can talk or not yet. She hasn’t quite decided herself yet. But he’s cautious, waiting for what comes next.

“Don’t move,” she tells him, slipping from his lap and leaving him waiting. She kneels in front of him, ignoring the twitch of his grin as she has to rest her knees on a pillow to make it work and bring them flush together. It’s easy to chase that grin away, cupping his jaw and kissing him twice before reaching her hands down and gripping his ass, guiding him with two slow sweeps of his hips back in and out of her. “Not until you can’t bear it, not until the only thing you can think to do is _take control_.”

He swallows, nods. Placid until she drives him too far. She guides his hips one more time and he’s stiff and unyielding against her even though his cock is buried deep within her. One more time and she feels the trembling pulse again, knows he’s on the edge.

She takes the blindfold off him, slowly so he knows to shutter his eyes at the sudden dim light. And then he’s looking at her, hazel eyes wide and pupils so dark she remembers falling in love all over again.

It falls to the ground and he whispers, “Maeve,” in a voice like he remembers too.

She tries to remember the game. Fails, kisses him. Moans into that kiss because he’s throbbing up into her, hard and hot and wrapped around her, and her brain is shutting down.

“Maeve,” he says again, and his nails nip at her back. Her fingers trail down to trace between his legs, feel the way his balls are pulling tight, preparing: his fingers tug close and he snarls, “ _Maeve_!”

One more time she takes his hips and pulls him out and in, but this time his hips snap forward of their own accord and slam home hard. She yelps and gasps all at once.

He does it again before his arms wrap around her and pull her up and onto him, rolling together until she’s on her back, barely able to think, his weight atop her, his mouth on hers, nails leaving furrows on her spine, and he gasps, “I was thinking about _this!”_ before fucking her with abandon; long, deep strokes that feel as though they’re taking her apart as he pulls her up and pushes her down with every thrust home, despite her legs wrapping around him and pulling him deeper, deeper, deeper— “Maeve, Maeve, Maeve,” he’s gasping without a breath in-between: “I won’t stop, I won’t, I can’t, I’m yours, I’m yours, just yours, I’m—”

And his hips stutter. Stall. _Yours_ , he’s still trying to squeeze out, even as his eyes jam shut and every facet of his body tenses on the cusp. She drags him deep, as deep as he can go, and begs him to come, to show her where he belongs, to mark her his and show her he’s hers, to—

He comes. A slow, almost endless pulse of him into her that seems to go forever with neither of them breathing throughout, just twitching wordlessly into each other as he comes and comes, his nails biting her hips, his cock filling her, his body heavy on hers and his heart stalling out. She clutches him close until his rhythmic twitching sets her off, the perfect throb of his body setting a slow beat that she can come down to, less violently but no less pleasurably, feeling rather than hearing him sob, “ _yes, baby, come with me, my love, oh god, I’m coming too, I’m…”_

They lay in a sated bundle of limbs and sweat and skin sticking on skin. As he softens inside her, she can feel the gush of liquid following gravity and trying to trickle out. Instead of stopping it, she tips her hips back up, rewarded by him reaching for her discarded pillow to the side and propping her up with it before coming back beside her to kiss her languidly.

One hand on her belly, the other pulling sweaty hair from her face, he murmurs, “When the books said to make conception fun, they didn’t quite mention _this_.”

She smirks, bringing the hand neatening her hair to her lips and kissing the gold band he wears. _Mine_. “Don’t worry,” she reassures him, “We have until the baby is born to have _all_ the fun you want.”

He looks equal parts terrified and excited; she laughs and holds him close as they settle down together. Maybe this is the month. She hopes it is.

Their bedroom is always a pleasure; even when there’s a purpose to it.

 


End file.
